


Operation: Leopard

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF!John, First Meetings, John Works For Mycroft, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needs to be someone interesting. And while he lives an interesting life, he can’t share that with the subject—that was the mistake that the third agent had made. No, he needs to be broken, just a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation: Leopard

**Author's Note:**

> Written ages ago for a kinkmeme prompt. Not beta'd or Britpicked.

He stands at his window and looks out on London—grey, cold. His office isn’t that high up, doesn’t have that great of a view, but it may as well be an ivory tower for as much as it protects him from the people below. They’re busy, ants marching in lines, very little going on in their minds beyond what’s in front of their faces.

He supposes he can’t begrudge Sherlock his attitude, but he also knows that human contact can be rewarding—if one finds the right person. He has, and it’s time Sherlock does, too.

Mycroft Holmes sighs and steps away from the dreary sight below, and glances again at his desk.

Three pictures, three choices.

He eliminates the woman straight off; Adler is brilliant, but unlikely to do more than excite Sherlock’s mind.

Two men to choose between, then. Kona is tall, dark, and handsome—something mysterious hinted at in his chocolate eyes and his coffee-coloured skin. Mycroft thinks Sherlock would appreciate the puzzle, because Kona has been everywhere, seen everything. He’s a flame dancing in the wind, hot and cold, unpredictable.

And there’s Whisky. New. Short, blonde, nondescript. The type that would help old ladies across the street and blush at the mere hint of something naughty. Every emotion writ large upon his face.

Mycroft’s already tried this before, of course—four times to be exact. The first was awkward—he’d sent a woman on purpose, to test his hypothesis, and had been gratified to find he was right. The fact that she’d needed months of counselling and reassignment afterwards had been minor inconveniences.

The second time, he’d sent a man and he was not too proud to say that it was one of the few times he’d been fooled. The little Irishman had played a good game—much better than most—but his more…unfortunate tendencies had been exacerbated by Sherlock’s habits and he’d gone rogue. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably—they were still looking for the man.

The third time, the man they’d sent had been up front about his mission. Not only had Sherlock not reacted well—to say the least—but Mycroft had been forced to eliminate the man.

The last time had, quite possibly, been the worst. He’d sent a man much like Kona; mysterious, aloof, a constant puzzle—or so Mycroft had thought. He certainly hadn’t predicted that Sherlock would spot him for what he was in an instant and send him away with a dressing down.

Mycroft frowns, and looks back at Whisky thoughtfully. Much less obvious than Kona, at any rate.

He leans forward and switches on the intercom that connects to his assistant’s desk right outside. “Get Whisky.”

**

When he arrives in the office, he sees Pimms looking out of a window on the city. The desk is empty save for a thick manila folder. Nonetheless, Whisky finds himself standing at attention and waiting; he’s good at that.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Pimms says, never turning away from the view.

He thinks that’s pretty self-evident and doesn’t say a word. Waiting.

“The file, on my desk. It’s an operation we’re attempting for the fifth time. Operation: Leopard. It’s deep cover, long-term. Your evaluations have cleared you for this sort of thing.”

Whisky steps forward and curiously plucks the folder up from the desk, sifting through it. Inside is a veritable treasure trove of data on one man: Sherlock Holmes. The name is completely unfamiliar and the information indicates a man who is an unusual target: tall, dark, curly hair, young, works with Scotland Yard in some undefined role. Former drug problem. Living family: one brother, Mycroft Holmes, minor bureaucrat.

Income records, tax records, receipts for Chinese food, surveillance photos, transcripts of recorded conversations. Anything and everything he could possibly want.

At a quick glance, he’d say the man was prone to boredom and in need of constant stimulation and entertainment.

And then he spots the mission objective. Romantic relationship.

His head snaps up. “Romance, sir?”

“Mmm,” Pimms says noncommittally.

Whisky stares at the man, baffled. He hasn’t been part of the Secret Service long, but something like this—dealing with a British citizen—seems to fall more under the purview of MI5. He senses that there’s more to this than meets the eye, that nothing about this is what it seems. Which, for the Secret Service, is saying something. Honestly, if he didn’t know better, he’d suspect a prank or a hazing ritual.

He's been a soldier too long to ask, to question _why_ , but the word flits around his mind regardless. Instead, he clears his throat and turns his attention to the mission brief. “I’ll be lead?”

“Yes,” Pimms answers. “It won’t be easy.”

“That goes without saying, doesn’t it? Will two months be enough prep time?”

“It will have to be.”

Whisky isn’t surprised, but he’s already seen a way in. It’s risky, but it _is_ deep, long-term cover. The best covers are the ones that rely least on lies.

“I’ll need a surveillance team, but it shouldn’t take me long.”

“You have a plan?” Pimms asks as he turns away from the window.

Whisky endures the scrutiny as best he can, although he can’t say he’s completely used to the way Pimms can seemingly slice a man open with his eyes and uncover all of his secrets. It's unnerving at the best of times.

“Yes. This man—Sherlock Holmes? He’s often at St Barts.”

“Yes.”

“I have a contact there, from before my time in the army. Mike Stamford.”

“Risky.”

“Of course.” Whisky grins, and it looks playful and sweet, until you really inspect it. And then you realise it has teeth. “Most things worthwhile are.”

“I hardly need warn you of the consequences should you fail,” Pimms says, though Whisky thinks it’s not because he disapproves.

“No.”

“Very well. Two months.”

Whisky leaves the office and heads for his flat. He’s a mission to plan.

**

 _Subject’s flat in Montague Street._

No, Whisky thinks. That won’t do at all.

Getting a man evicted from his flat takes subtlety. Whisky is good at subtlety.

**

 _Prior association with **Hudson** in Florida. Currently in contact with subject. In the process of purchasing flats in Baker Street._

A quick phone call to the bank expedites the process. Money does talk, after all, and loads of money talks very loudly and silences everything else in the room.

**

Mike Stamford’s habits haven’t changed in over fifteen years and he’s rather pathetically easy to track.

A walk in Russell Square Gardens every Monday afternoon? So very easy.

**

The issue of persona has occurred to Whisky throughout the weeks leading up to zero hour. He will have to use the name he was born with, undoubtedly—an odd sensation, as he hasn’t used it in some time. But…there must be something more.

Whisky scours the files.

 _Subject prone to drug use in the past; has been clean for four years, six months, 22 days at time of report._

 _Subject prone to fits of depression due to inactivity._

He needs to be someone interesting. And while he lives an interesting life, he can’t share that with the subject—that was the mistake that the third agent had made. No, he needs to be broken, just a little.

Whisky rubs his left shoulder distractedly. He needs to be what Sherlock Holmes is not.

He can’t be brilliant, but he has to be intelligent; he has to be brave, which is easy, and accommodating, which is less so.

His shoulder twinges. He has to be….

Whisky stops and glances at his shoulder. And then he looks down at his leg.

He has to be a puzzle to solve.

**

“Everything is in position,” Whisky relays to the surveillance team.

He spots Mike Stamford—sitting on a bench—from his position and takes a deep breath. His shoulders relax and he leans onto the crutch he’s holding. “Let’s go,” he says, and then breaks contact.

Whisky disappears and suddenly there’s Doctor John Watson, veteran, limping into the square.

**

When he sees the sleek dark car pull up alongside him on the street, he doesn’t hesitate. He gets in immediately and nods firmly to Amaretto.

“I’m John,” he says.

He almost smirks when she replies, “I know.”

**

The drive doesn’t take long and he finds himself in a warehouse he’s visited before. He takes a brief moment to locate Pimms before he scans the place, ensuring that it’s clear and that he knows where all the exits are.

“Have a seat, John,” Pimms says, but John shakes his head and continues to stand.

He listens to Pimms detail his history—the stuff that, once upon a time, happened to John Watson, and the things that he concocted, like an author creating a backstory. And then he asks about the target, Sherlock Holmes.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

The way Pimms talks, it’s very easy to slip back into Whisky, to want to answer without hesitation. He resists, and denies that they have much of a connection. They only met yesterday, after all.

“Mmm, and since yesterday, you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

He nearly smirks, only remembering at the last moment that Doctor John Watson would be irritated at the very insinuation.

He’s certain, though, that Pimms has got the message.

**

No. No, no, no! It’s not supposed to go like this. He’s supposed to protect Sherlock and just _how_ is he to manage that when the man runs off on his own?

He flies through the halls, yelling, kicking doors in, because he knows Sherlock is here and all he can hope is that he isn’t too late.

He flings the last door open, racing in, and then he can see across the way to the other building.

The one where Sherlock Holmes currently is. And where he’s facing off with a serial murderer.

He doesn’t think, just lets his instincts take over. He’s not Doctor John Watson, now, but Whisky.

He pulls out his gun and runs right up to the window, opening it hurriedly. And then he takes a deep breath, steadies his nerves, and fires.

Because he won’t have a cover at all if he doesn’t stop Sherlock from killing himself.

**

He falls into domestic life at 221B Baker Street, falls into the role of Doctor John Watson, so easily that he can hardly believe it. It’s almost as though he’s meant to be here—and he’s never been one to believe in such things, but this life fits him like a glove.

And he likes it.

The fact that he’s meant to seduce and enter a romantic relationship with his flatmate—who’s brilliant and gorgeous—is icing on the cake, especially because he suspects that Sherlock is a ‘no strings attached type,’ which suits him to the ground.

**

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“Of course I know that,” Sherlock answers, but he’s pleased. John can tell.

It’s easy to drift close, to breathe Sherlock in—even if he smells like chemicals and formaldehyde and musk—and put a hand on the back of his neck. Easy enough to press gently against him, to look deep into those pale grey eyes.

Easy enough to press his lips against Sherlock’s, to suck lightly on the lower lip, and use his free hand to take one of Sherlock’s.

Easy enough to encourage reciprocation.

It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that this is the easiest, and most enjoyable, mission he’s ever been on.

**

“Will caring about them help save them?”

“Nope.”

“Then I will continue to not make that mistake.”

He’s surprised to feel a twist in his gut—brief, very brief—and he almost stops just then, in surprise.

Something’s changed, because this? This suddenly isn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be, because he feels.

And feeling like this hurts.

**

“All right? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says in distraction and relief. And it’s strange, to have Sherlock in this position _now_ , given everything else that’s happened today.

He watches Sherlock throw the bomb away, watches Sherlock pace restlessly and attempt to thank him—awkwardly—for what he did.

Bizarrely, it’s on the tip of his tongue to confess it all to Sherlock, in that instant. That it was planned, from the very beginning, that John arranged the meeting, deliberately saved Sherlock’s life, manipulated Sherlock into this relationship.

Because he feels, now, and he can’t stand the thought of the lie, of the cover.

But then Sherlock looks at him and makes a joke, and John realises that the lie has become the truth, that he wants this, that Sherlock wants this, and that he’s not lying anymore. Hasn’t been for some time.

It’s what makes it easier when Moriarty returns, when Sherlock points the gun.

It’s what allows him to place his life in Sherlock’s hands, allows him to trust.

Whatever happens from here, John thinks, it happens because John and Sherlock want it to.

Operation Leopard is over.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Plausible Deniability (an Operation Leopard remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669969) by [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa)
  * [War Dog (an Operation Leopard Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699809) by [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa)




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